


Charlie Company

by Kayim, siluria



Series: Charlie Company (Mag7 AU) [1]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayim/pseuds/Kayim, https://archiveofourown.org/users/siluria/pseuds/siluria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Mag7 AU set during the Vietnam War.</p><p>Warnings for violence, but nothing more than would be expected during war time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charlie Company

**June 20 1968: 1800 hours**

Lieutenant Chris Larabee paused by the sandbags of his quarters as the canvas ‘door’ flapped back into place behind him. He took out a cigarette and leaned back against the bagging, slowly breathing out the smoke to the early evening air. The last rays of the scorching sun cast a pinkish purple over the horizon and the scattered clouds that promised a coming storm. His eyes followed the floodlights as one by one they noisily clanked to life and pushed back the shadows, casting Firebase Destiny into light and signaling the start of the night watches.

It wasn’t the first time the officer had been stationed on a Vietnam firebase, but it was the first time he’d been on one that wasn’t yet fully operational. Charlie Company had moved further east from their previous firebase, closer to their sister companies positioned to the south of their HQ at Chu Lai. The two platoons of Charlie Company had spent the last two weeks putting together their new home away from home. The last of the supplies were due in tomorrow, at which point the technicians and non-combatants would hitch a ride home, leaving the rest of them to fight it out with the NVA and VC, trying to defend the small square of god-forsaken soil. This time, though, there was a third platoon added to their midst, and rumors were rife on camp as to the purpose of a platoon that only had one squad.

1st Lieutenant Chris Larabee’s arrival gave fuel to the rumors, but none were so inclined to ask him for answers. Even if they had been, he couldn’t honestly give them what he didn’t know. He’d arrived at Destiny that morning with his platoon sergeant and best friend Buck Wilmington. They’d jumped off the chopper, aware of the scrutiny they were under, and were met with apologies that they could not be briefed by their company captain due an unexpected staff meeting at HQ.

Six hours later and Chris was still waiting.

He had an idea of what was going to be required of him, but the question of why he was there still nagged. As soon as he had recovered from injuries incurred on his last mission, Chris immediately resigned from MACV’s highly secretive and covert SOG unit. No one argued. Such was the pressure and danger put on SOG team leaders that what they asked for, they received, with the vital exception of the support they needed on unofficial cross-border missions. Lying in a shallow depression in Cambodia for five hours, watching his team-mates and friends killed one by one because no air support was available, he decided that if he ever made it out alive that he would not venture out of country again.

It took a while for his own injuries to heal fully, even longer for the guilt and pain to dull. When they did, he was greeted by a MACV aide and an envelope requesting his transfer to Charlie Company of the 3rd/44th; his expertise was required in setting up a new kind of recon platoon. Intrigued, Chris took up the offer on the proviso that he could choose his sergeant. Not expecting that amount of latitude, he was surprised when confirmation came through. He presumed someone had second-guessed his requirements. The rest of his new platoon, however, were unknowns, and he was waiting for Captain Travis to finally appear and debrief him on what he had agreed to let himself in for.

He flicked the half-drawn cigarette to the floor and crushed it into the red dust as his sergeant approached. Buck Wilmington eased himself into a slouch that mirrored his CO, eyes automatically scanning the surrounding terrain before the light completely faded.

"Still waiting?"

"Yep," Larabee said with a sigh.

"There are a lot of rumors flying about, some reckon we’re heading up a covert ops team, others think we’re here recruiting or spying… Hell, one of the spec’s reckons they’re sick of the newbies getting downed on their first missions and we’re supposed to lick them into shape," Buck huffed.

"Could be any of those reasons," Chris said with a shrug.

"My money’s on covert ops."

"Easy money I reckon," Chris drawled. "You find out where our new boys are bedded?"

"There’s enough chatter out there, and it ain’t hard finding them on a base this size, just wanted to see if you’d got the official nod before I go say howdy."

Chris sighed and uncrossed his ankles. "Not as though you can tell them anything if they ask. Go get a feel for them and I’ll come find you when Travis finally shows up."

Buck nodded and pushed himself away from the sandbags. "Will do, but it looks like you won’t be waiting much longer, stud."

Chris followed Buck’s gaze to the approaching officer. Chris knew Captain Travis by reputation only, having asked a few questions on first receiving the transfer offer. What the man lacked in stature he more than made up for in respect - both the respect he offered his men, and that given to him in return. In an army of pen-pushers and body-counters, Travis was one of the rare breed of officers who put his men first.

Chris straightened up as the captain approached, raising a hand to the customary salute, Buck mirroring his gesture.

Travis acknowledged quickly, signaling the men to stand-at-ease. "Lieutenant Larabee, Sergeant Wilmington."

"If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I think I’ll go and introduce myself to our squad," Buck said, obviously deciding to go his own way before he was dismissed.

"Good idea, Sergeant," the CO said. Travis and Chris nodded at Buck’s salute and remained silent as they watched him saunter off.

"Shall we?" Travis asked gesturing for Chris to go back into his quarters.

Chris held the flap open allowing the captain to precede him and select his spot in the small area before following. Travis selected the desk chair, Chris opted for the corner of his bunk.

"Firstly, allow me to apologize for keeping you waiting, unfortunately the debrief at HQ was deemed rather more important by certain officers in our battalion."

Chris shrugged off the apology. "It happens."

"I did bring these for you to look at, though. I have a mission in place for a few days time which I’ll go over, but I thought you may want to see who I have selected for the platoon."

Chris took the manila folders that were held out to him, casting a brief eye over the four names on the front of each folder before ordering them in rank. Travis continued as Chris opened the first folder.

"I’m sure since your arrival you’ve heard the rumors, and I know there was little in the correspondence you’ve received to give you a true indication of why I requested your transfer. You’re heading up a new kind of team, one that if it works will hopefully lead to a number of such teams in-country. You will lead the platoon, but you will only have one squad of five men. You may call on the other platoons of the company when manpower is required, and you will be in charge regardless."

Chris looked up from the first of the dossiers to give Travis his full attention.

"You’ve been brought in to head a new kind of team. One that operates similarly to SOG in that you are heading covert missions, engaging only when absolutely necessary, aiming for specific targets rather than enemy kill ratios."

Chris frowned and opened his mouth to protest, Travis started again before he could voice his displeasure.

"There has been a worrying number of losses in SOG. I know your own loss was difficult and I fully appreciate that your previous posting made you feel that support was non-existent. That won’t happen here. All your targets will be in-country. You go out on these missions as American soldiers, with a team fully complemented by your own countrymen. You are an acknowledged division of the United States Army and will have air support and dust-off’s when you need them. That proviso has already been agreed."

Chris’s frown remained but any protests remained with himself. Travis pointed to the four folders that Larabee still held.

"I took the opportunity to scout through my company and those of the battalion to get the best. You have undoubtedly the best counter-sniper in this man’s army. Tanner’s so good the NVA have put a price on his head."

Chris flicked to the relevant folder and skimmed through the pages. The record was almost unbelievable, the man a loner, which suited Chris fine as he had no intentions of getting that close to any of the men he led again. He placed the file on the bunk next to him and reached for the next folder.

"Specialist Nathan Jackson," Travis announced as Chris read the name. "A damn good medic, unfortunately has a little trouble turning the other cheek to racism, but will not leave a man in the field, be it dead or alive." Travis paused as his watched Chris’s forehead crease. "I know you won’t have a problem with his color, and I know if anyone can calm his attitude you can."

Chris didn’t attempt to hide his obvious sigh of frustration, it was better to start off without any misconceptions.

"Private Josiah Sanchez. A bear of a man, has an almost unnatural strength yet gentle spirituality about him. Unfortunately he has a tendency to lose himself in the bottle."

"A preacher?" Chris asked looking up from the folder, disbelief evident in his tone.

"Ex-preacher. Sanchez found it difficult to find words of comfort for the injured and dying when he could not share evidence of understanding their experiences. He was de-frocked after a drunken rampage brought on when one of the soldiers he was trying to comfort committed suicide from what he’d seen in the field. He immediately signed up. Weapons specialist, machine gunner. I’ll die before I see the day he leaves someone behind, and he’ll be loyal as hell if you can prove your worth to him. I can’t see that being a problem."

Chris looked dubious, shaking his head as he tossed the file onto the bed with the others. He picked up the final file and opened it. Travis refrained from commenting until Larabee spoke first, predicting the man’s reactions. He wasn’t disappointed.

"What the hell…?" Chris’s head raised sharply, angry gaze flicking to Travis. "You want to put a 19 year old rookie RTO in a covert recon team?"

"Until last week, no, I didn’t. Private Dunne, however, albeit through a misguided prank, demonstrated that he knows far more about radio transmissions and circuitry than anyone else I have ever come across."

"He’s been here less than six weeks and hasn’t even been on a mission yet, and you want me to take him out and get him killed?"

"No, I want you to take him out, pass on the benefit of your experience and make use of his talents. You won’t get a better guy on the radio."

"I don’t like it," Chris bit.

"You don’t have to like it, you just have to make do. MACV has designated VC and NVA communications hotspots as future targets. Dunne will prove invaluable for those alone."

"If he stays alive that long."

"See to it that he does," Travis answered.

"So, let me get this straight," Chris started. "You want me to lead SOG style recon missions with an alcoholic gunner, a medic with an attitude problem, a sniper with a bounty on his head that every VC wants to collect, and a hyperactive cherry RTO?"

Travis laughed slightly. "When you put it like that it does sound a little unconventional," he admitted.

Chris huffed. "Unconventional? Suicidal more like."

Travis sobered. "You have a team of men, each is the best at what they do. Whether they can work together or not will be down to you and Sergeant Wilmington, but due to Buck’s nature I doubt even that will be a problem." Travis stood. "I’ll see you and the Sergeant at 0800 hours tomorrow to discuss the forthcoming mission. I trust you’ll see fit to at least introduce yourself to the rest of your platoon by then."

Chris raised himself from the bunk, but any comment he had was drowned by the sound of explosives shattering through the evening’s calm.

Grabbing his rifle from where it rested against the desk, Chris pushed the captain out of his tent to the nearest foxhole. Both men dropped down into the depression, joined almost immediately by a third soldier, arms laden with supplies. Chris readied his weapon as he acknowledged the new arrival, critical eyes noting the startled and guilty look that flashed across the soldier’s face when he recognized the rank insignias of the two men.

Again, the comment Chris was about to utter was drowned out by further shelling, and the foxhole was cast with a red glow as the first of the flares were set off above the unlit surroundings of the firebase.

A panicked cry of ‘sappers’ was heard and Chris turned his attention away from the newcomer to the fences where the last of the dying flare highlighted the VC satchel bombers placing charges at the base’s wire perimeter. Chris raised his rifle to one of the enemy and opened fire before the man could set the charge. The VC went down.

*

Travis, angered at being caught without a weapon suddenly found the butt of a handgun pointed in his direction. Raising his gaze to lock with the green eyes of the newcomer, Travis gladly took the weapon. A dimpled grin appeared on the soldier’s face as he reached within his fatigues and pulled out another two guns.

"I like to be prepared," the man drawled, before positioning himself so he had a good view of the perimeter, barely flinching as an enemy shell exploded on the ground not far from their foxhole.

Travis shook his head and matched the two soldier’s placement. As a second flare went up and the perimeter was again illuminated, he joined the other two soldiers in picking out the sappers.

As the second flare died and the shelling calmed slightly, five further bodies hurled themselves into the foxhole. Travis glanced behind him, wondering why he shouldn’t be surprised that Larabee’s entire platoon had somehow gravitated to one another.

*

"Figured I’d find you here," Buck huffed as he dropped down to position himself by Chris, rifle trained on the fences.

"Glad you could join us," Chris answered, a brief glance identifying Buck’s companions from the photos he’d seen just minutes before in the files now resting on his bunk.

Each man took up a position of readiness, the young RTO having dragged his equipment into the foxhole with him, crouching automatically behind his lieutenant. At least that’s one thing I don’t have to teach him, Chris cynically thought.

"Here they come," Tanner announced steadily as the tree line was illuminated again.

The VC were running en-masse from their cover to storm the base, the long-range shells hitting the base with more frequency. Chris ordered his men to open fire, mentally impressed by the accuracy of each man and trying not to be in awe as the sniper instinctively picked off the VC Chris needed him to without having to ask. While pausing to re-load, Chris turned to the RTO.

"Can you get Artillery on that?"

"Yes sir," Dunne answered, the excitement all too evident in his mannerisms.

"Good, get hold of them." For a brief second he waited to make sure the young private was following orders before he turned back to the firefight.

Dropping back down a second later, Chris grabbed hold of the radio that was held out to him and proceeded to call in heavy artillery on the advancing VC.

"We’ve got incoming friendly fire," he shouted to the men once the location had been confirmed. Even before he’d finished the warning, the low screech of the shells could be heard.

The resulting explosions ripped through the tree line, the heat and the air wave flying over the top of the foxhole. After the second wave of explosions, all eight men came back up ready, but the flares that went up at the same time showed the remaining VC heading away from the base. There was a good ten minutes of silence before anyone moved from their state of readiness. Travis rose, barking out orders to assess the damage and raise defenses. Once happy that his orders were being carried out he turned back to the men that had shared the foxhole.

"Lieutenant Larabee, allow me to introduce your new team."

Chris rose and nodded to each man as Travis introduced them, casually answering the salute of the young RTO who held his back straight and tense enough to snap.

"And you are?" Chris asked the last man that was trying to inconspicuously collect the load he had dropped when he had jumped into the foxhole.

Looking like a deer that had been caught in headlights as all eyes turned to him, the soldier quickly regained his composure. "Ezra P. Standish at your service."

"That’s not a name I know in my Company, Private," Travis responded.

"That is probably as I am not part of your Company."

"Would you like to explain why you are here and what you are doing with flak jackets?" Chris demanded, unimpressed by the lack of due respect.

"Not particularly," Standish answered honestly.

Chris shared a look with his CO. "Sergeant," he said, "you wanna go see what the damage is and see what we can do to get things up and running again."

"Will do, sir." Buck turned to the remaining men and issued orders. Travis waited until they had departed until turning back to the private.

"What are you doing on this firebase with those flak jackets?"

The tone in Travis’s voice had the private standing stiffly, albeit not to attention in the customary stance. "I am simply seeing that supplies go to the areas where they are most required."

"There are procedures for the acquisition of supplies," Chris pointed out. "This could be classed as thieving."

"I like to call it redistribution of necessary equipment. So tell me, Lieutenant, what would you do when those ‘procedures’ fail?" the private asked, a touch of disgust tingeing the words.

His hackles rising at the continued lack of respect, Chris tried to glare a ‘sir’ out of the soldier but the green eyes matched his for stubborn determination.

"What division are you from?" Travis interrupted.

"173rd," Standish reluctantly answered.

"Airborne?" Chris asked, a touch of disbelief edging in his voice. He was beginning to wonder whether the soldier’s bravado was due to a disrespect for authority or simply that the he felt that there was nothing wrong with what he was doing.

"Unless they’ve become a troop of traveling musicians in the last few hours," Standish responded, the sarcasm thinly veiled.

"So, in what capacity do you serve in the 173rd?" Travis inquired.

Standish frowned, but if he wondered where the questioning was going he didn’t ask. "I’m with the 4th, Delta Company, have been since I arrived in-country."

"How long has that been?" Travis asked.

Standish sighed. "Due to an unfortunate act of fate, and that I tend to be fashionably late for everything, I was born ten hours later than I should have been. Thus, with thanks to the superb method of randomizing the draft process, I have been in this god-forsaken country for two months, five days, 10 hours and… 27 minutes," he added after a brief glance at his watch.

"Have you jumped?" Chris asked, knowing the Delta company were one of the infantry units of the 173rd. They all received training as paratroopers, though. It was something the lieutenant had once considered before signing on with a ground unit.

"Fortunately only in training," Standish answered. "And before you ask, I have been out on one LRRP of several weeks duration and a number of short search and destroy operations. If you require full mission debriefs I am available until the end of the week."

Travis snorted in amusement. "I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you have any specializations?"

"Beyond being a pain in the ass," Chris muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth to bite back a reply when Standish smirked at him. Damn man must drive his CO crazy.

"No one skill that I am overly adept at. I have run point on the odd occasion, I am familiar with M60’s having sat in the gunner’s seats on the hueys, and I have a familiarity with all the various weaponry our country supplies its soldiers with."

"You also seem to have a surprising collection of personal armory, Private," Travis stated, emphasizing the point by handing back the sidearm he’d been loaned.

"One can never be too prepared," Standish admitted, sliding the gun back into the concealed holster at his back.

"You also seem to have the inclination to help yourself to equipment. You’re a long way from the 173rd, Standish," Larabee pointed out.

The private scowled, but remained silent.

"I would still like to know what are you doing on my firebase, Private Standish," Travis asked, a touch of amusement curling the corner of his mouth.

"As I said previously, I am merely redistributing essential equipment."

Standish’s tone would sound bored to the majority that heard it, but Chris detected an edge creeping in to his voice that spoke of anger rather than the expected fear of the consequences of being caught in the act.

"Essential to who?" Chris asked.

"Whom," Standish automatically corrected.

Chris ground his teeth and stepped closer to the smaller man. "You’re walking a fine line, soldier."

"You want to know why?" Standish responded, the suppressed anger now clearly evident in his southern drawl. "You really want to know what my specialization is?" he asked, turning away to glare at Travis. "I find equipment, more often than not essential kit that men shouldn’t be without. I find little luxuries, and source whatever someone might need or want."

"And charge a fortune for it no doubt," Chris said with a sneer.

Angered green eyes spun back to him, holding his gaze as a barely contained drawl spat back at him. "I do it because I can. Because our firebase has the most worthless excuse for a requisition officer this army has the audacity to appoint. One of the implications of which is that the pilots who pull my posterior, as well as yours, out of the line of fire, are flying without the basic equipment. This base does not house any pilots, yet you have more flak jackets than our entire division. As I said, it is not thieving, Lieutenant Larabee, but reallocation of essential supplies."

"And how did you manage to find out that Destiny had flak jackets?" Travis asked, thereby interrupting the charged atmosphere surrounding the two soldiers that left him feeling like an outsider.

Standish bit back what was going to be an automatic response to criticism. "I have my means," he simply stated.

Travis smiled and looked to Chris, who returned the gaze, doing a double take at what he read in the captain’s expression.

The lieutenant’s frown deepened. "No."

Travis’s smile evolved into a grin. "Yes."

"No."

"I think so, Lieutenant. Private Standish, how would you like a transfer?"

Standish sighed. "Do I have a choice?" he asked, presuming that being caught red-handed due to the VC’s abysmal timing meant the transfer would likely be his punishment. That was especially true if he was going to have the rather angry and aloof lieutenant as his CO.

"No," Travis responded before turning to his clearly unimpressed platoon commander. "Lieutenant, I’d like you to arrange for our spare flak jackets to be delivered to wherever Private Standish believes they will be most appreciated." Both soldiers raised their eyes at the command, bringing on a brief shared glance. "I shall see about arranging for your belongings to be shipped over and I shall see you both with the rest of 3rd Platoon at the debriefing tomorrow afternoon at 1400. Lieutenant, 0800 sharp for yourself and Sergeant Wilmington," Travis added before turning on his heal and climbing out of the foxhole.

"Well, that was not what I was expecting," Standish mumbled.

"That makes two of us," Chris sighed, wondering just what the hell he’d gotten himself in to.

*

It didn’t take the lieutenant and his new private long to finish sorting out the flak jackets, a job expedited, Ezra surmised, by the general aura of pissiness that Larabee projected. He had opted to remain silent as the supply sergeant was subjected to a glacial glare that had him scurrying from one shelf to another, profusely apologizing for losing stock. Ezra almost wanted to break it to him that it hadn’t been lost, simply relocated from under his nose. In this instance, however, he believed ignorance was likely bliss, and would make his job easier in future.

He was thankful when the whole affair was finished, although when Larabee stormed off it was only by presumption that he followed, the lieutenant being rather rationed with his words. Ezra kept up with the clipped pace, casting his eyes skyward as the first drops of rain from the threatened storm began to descend. They reached the team tent just as the heavens opened.

The flap dropped back to smack wetly against the canvas as the two men entered the tent. The young private scrambled off his bunk in order to throw a stiff salute together, the remainder of the men sat up but did not stand. Ezra glanced around the faces of his new teammates, noting that two were missing, the sergeant and Jackson. Chris also noticed the medic’s absence.

"Where’s Jackson?"

"Over at the med tent. He thought he’d give the medics a hand with the wounded," Sanchez explained.

Chris nodded. "I wanted to run this by all of you, but with the mission debrief tomorrow I’ll go through it now, one of you can talk Jackson through it."

Ezra edged round the Lieutenant and headed for one of the bunks that appeared not to have been claimed already, returning the greeting of the sharpshooter with a nod of his own.

"First of all, we have an extra member as of tonight, Private Ezra Standish," Chris pointed to the southerner who was just attempting to make his new bunk marginally less uncomfortable than it was. "Sanchez, he’ll be your A-gunner, he has more experience than the rest of the team."

Ezra frowned with the announcement, lugging heavy weaponry around the countryside was not his idea of soldiering. The challenge in Larabee’s tone, however, silenced the automatic protest he was poised to utter. Instead, he turned to the large gunner and raised two fingers in salute.

Larabee opened his mouth, but was interrupted before he could say anything by the arrival of the team sergeant.

"Sheesh, it’s wetter than one of mamasan’s whores out there," Buck said loudly as he entered the tent.

"What?" he added, when everyone stared. A startled cough from the youngest member of the team had the jovial sergeant looking at the RTO, and barely holding his mirth in check at the deep blush spreading across his cheeks.

JD was saved from further comment by his lieutenant. "Glad you could join us," Larabee stated. "The base settled back down?"

"Yep, got a few extra eyes on watch but I doubt Charlie’ll be back tonight." With that, Buck perched himself on the edge of the nearest rack, muttering a quick ‘thanks’ as Tanner pulled his feet up to give him more room.

"I don’t know how much you’ve been told about the new platoon," Larabee started. "I doubt it’s much because I didn’t find out myself until an hour ago. You guys are one squad of the platoon, the only one it will have. Our remit is more intelligence than recon and engagement, we will only engage the enemy if it’s absolutely necessary. In that respect we work like covert ops, but we will be a recognized unit of the US forces and have all its support available to us."

*

Chris glanced across each of his men, Buck seemed wary but willing to give it a go. Sanchez almost seemed disappointed, which left the lieutenant wondering just how trigger-happy the gunner was. The young RTO seemed overly excited; the sharpshooter was harder to read but Chris could not see any negativity. Standish was impossible to read, although Chris was positive the southerner’s mind was working overtime plotting, and he scowled a warning to him that was met with a knowing smirk. Chris was left wondering again just what the hell he’d let himself in for. For now he let it drop, although if the southerner messed up in any way on the upcoming mission he was going to find out the hard way how bad a move it was to piss his lieutenant off.

"We have a mission debrief tomorrow, for you guys it will be at 1400. Until tomorrow I do not know what our brief is but there will be training exercises until we ship out. Any questions?"

Chris glanced around each of his men, pleased when there were no takers. "Standish, I’ll see your gear is brought out first thing."

The southerner just nodded, although it was obvious to the lieutenant he wasn’t pleased with the situation.

"Sergeant." Chris indicated with a nod of his head that he wanted Buck to follow him.

*

The tent flap had barely settled before the young RTO opened his mouth, words falling out in an adrenaline rush. "Cool, covert ops. I wonder what we’ll be doing. I haven’t heard of a platoon with just one squad, must be something special."

"I’m guessing you haven’t been here long," Ezra drawled, when the young private paused to breathe.

"Six weeks and I wasn’t supposed to be front line, they figured I’d be better in communications support. Dumb huh? I mean surely they need everyone they can get on the front line."

"Sometimes putting a gun in someone’s hand when they have the intelligence to make a difference is not the best move to make," Josiah murmured. The deep voice, quiet with experience, resonated throughout the tent.

JD gave the weapons specialist a confused look before shaking his head and turning his attention elsewhere. "So how come you’ve joined the team, Ezra? Why isn’t your gear here?" he asked, the innocent question bringing all eyes to the southerner.

"Captain Travis felt my skills could be better utilized here, although I have to admit to not knowing until just now, what here would encompass," Ezra said, barely answering the questions asked of him. He ended any further discussion by pulling a deck of cards from his breast pocket, agile fingers pulling the ace of spades repeatedly from wherever it lay in the deck.

JD watched mesmerized for a short time, before curiosity, the silence and his own inactivity became too much for him to bear.

"So what is it with the ace of spades?"

"Excuse me?" Ezra said, concentration interrupted by the rushed voice.

"The ace of spades. Guys have it strapped to the band on their helmets. I wondered why."

"I have no idea. It is simply a card I have had a close affinity with," the southerner admitted.

"It’s the death card," Vin’s hushed voice said.

"Huh?" JD’s confusion was clear.

Vin shrugged as attention turned to him, shifting back on his cot as he eased his slouch. "Some reckon it’s supposed to be bad luck for the Vietnamese, some superstition or other that they have. Can’t say as I’ve heard anything like that, but some of the units have used them as calling cards. Reckon most just use it as a good luck charm."

"Oh, okay." JD nodded, before turning to the southerner. "Hey, so if you say you’re like the ace of spades then does it bring you luck?"

"I can’t say as I have recognized its status as a good luck charm."

"But if you’re like the ace of spades then maybe you can be our good luck charm," JD said eagerly.

It was at this point that the team medic returned to the tent. He had spent the last few hours dealing with the wounded and the death of his fellow countrymen. Already not at his best, the discussion about what he recognized as a symbol of death and the clear southern accent had his hackles immediately raised.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Excuse me?"

The southerner wasn’t the only one startled by the angry tone and abruptness from their new medic. The attention of the other three men was also pulled to Jackson as he angrily shook himself free of his rain poncho.

"You heard."

"Yes I did, I was merely ascertaining whether your attitude was a slip of the tongue, due to your less-than-pleasant duties. Obviously not."

"Bet you think you’re so smart. Well don’t presume we’re all farm boys." The medic’s tone remained biting.

Ezra sighed. "I wouldn’t be so presumptuous. Appearances can be deceptive, Mr Jackson."

Jackson growled and took a step closer to the southerner’s cot, his advance on the southerner stopped only by the rather solid mass of Sanchez spreading his long legs across the gap between bunks.

"That’s all I get from people like you; a look of disdain," he said cuttingly.

"I can assure you that if I was to look at you with such an emotion, it would not be because of the color of your skin."

"So you expect me to mess up in the field then? Reckon I’m not good enough for the likes of you?"

"I doubt you would have been chosen for this unit if that was going to be the case," Ezra said, his drawl deepening. He remained calm, his body still relaxed.

"Just so’s you know, I ain’t about to tolerate any crap from you," Jackson said, the glare signifying that the discussion was over as he turned to his bunk and opened the large medical journal he had grabbed from his side table.

Ezra simply shrugged, punching his pillow in order to make himself more comfortable before returning to the deft manipulation of the deck of cards. The others were left wondering how frequently they were going to be caught in the middle of such confrontations and just how to get on with a volatile medic and a seemingly uncaring a-gunner.

*

Unbeknownst to the five uneasy teammates, their team leaders had overheard the entire tirade, having been sheltering adjacent to the platoon’s tent as they had their own conversation.

"I know Standish could wind up a saint, he pisses me off and I barely know him, but even I think that was uncalled for. You think Jackson’s going to be trouble?" Chris asked Buck, knowing that his old friend was a good judge of character and an excellent motivator of men.

"I reckon Standish can hold his own, but he’ll snap back with those retorts which will only serve to wind Jackson up further, " the Sergeant shrugged unhappily. "Standish’s likely gonna be too distant, maybe too proud, to justify himself against what’s being thrown at him, which could mean that he’s gonna be the trouble. Jackson’s had a rough time of it with his other platoons, and I know the death of King has hit a lot of the brothers hard. He’s used to watching his back, and rightly or wrongly, he’s reacting to the Dixie in Standish and not giving the boy a chance. I’m hoping once Jackson realizes that there’s no animosity based on his color, and the problem’s with his own attitude, that things will calm down. I’ve enough heard good things about him to know he’ll be good for the squad."

"Well, if anyone can get those five working together as a team it’ll be you," Chris said, slapping his old friend on the shoulder before stepping back out from the shelter of the tents and into the deluge.

"Gee thanks, pard," Buck said with mock glee as he followed him into the rain. Tomorrow would tell.

*

 **June 24 1968: 0600 hours**

Chris Larabee had spent the last two days trying to discover more about the team. He paid little notice of hearsay, preferring to make his own mind up, but with a raw team heading out, he needed more to go on. He’d put calls into contacts who had served or been stationed with each of his team, and the mixed results had left him confused and with a much less clear picture of each of his men. His initial opinions were starting to become clouded. The training session went better than he expected, each of the men proving to be highly adept--an eye-opener that gave him a little more confidence in the success of the mission. They had been assigned to touch base with one of the Montagnard villages classed as ‘friendly’. Reports said there was NVA movement approaching the area, although not close enough to cause concern, and the new intelligence team was being sent out to check the validity of the information. It was an eyeball operation only, if contact was required, full platoons would be sent in.

As Chris approached the landing pad, he took a few moments to look around at the six men that stood in front of him. The youngest two members of the team stood together in complete contrast to each other. JD seemed incapable of staying still, alternating between shuffling his feet in the dusty floor, checking his weapon and brushing his too-long hair from his eyes. As though trying to prove how to behave, Tanner stood almost motionless, his sniper rifle - a Winchester Model 70, the standard for most scout/snipers - slung casually over his shoulder. His hair, despite being as long, if not longer, than JD’s, was tucked beneath the plain black do-rag, keeping the chestnut curls from his face as he stared up at the sky, patiently waiting for the incoming Slick.

Standish was a mixture of the two, unable to remain still, but more focused. He held a well-used pack of playing cards in his hands, cutting them and expertly maneuvering one card from the bottom of the pack to the top with just the slightest movement from his thumb. He wore the standard tiger stripe fatigues, but his seemed as though they had just returned from a laundry. Somehow Chris knew that Standish would always manage to come through a firefight looking just the same, he’d certainly managed to complete the practice maneuvers without a mark on him.

Their new medic, Jackson, sat on the floor, double-checking the contents of his Medipac. His track record spoke for itself, but Chris knew it was more than skill that allowed the medic to save people that seemed unsaveable. He had a determination and a stubbornness that meant he would blame himself for any death that he couldn’t prevent. He probably carried more equipment than was standard, but he was the type of man who would rather make extra work for himself than risk not having what he needed.

Jackson was similar in many ways to their oldest teammate. Sanchez’s unique speech patterns and his soft voice sometimes reminded people he was once a preacher, but he was in no way the classic stereotype. At over 6’2" he was taller than even Buck and had a physique to rival that of men almost half his age. He had his own clear-cut definitions of right and wrong which he stuck to wholeheartedly, even though his definitions might not match those of the United States Army. He would never leave a man behind, alive or dead, and had often returned to the middle of a firefight to pull someone out. He treated prisoners of war with the utmost respect, unless they tried to fight back, in which case a single punch usually stopped them.

Finally, Chris turned to face Buck. They had been together for almost two years - a lifetime in this place - and he knew that without a doubt that this was one person he could rely on 100%. Buck had dragged him through the nightmare of Sarah and Adam’s death, standing by him day after day.

The two had met early on during their initial tours in Vietnam. Both career soldiers and proud to serve their country, they had formed a unique bond from the start. Chris was known for his aloofness, allowing no-one too close to him, but Buck broke through the boundaries and the two became fast friends. When they discovered that their DEROS, the date they were due to head home, was only a couple of days apart, they arranged to spend a few days together in Saigon before catching the Freedom Bird home. It was while the two were drinking and partying that Chris’ wife and son were killed in a house fire back home. Unable to deal with the guilt that threatened to consume him, Chris re-upped for a second tour in ‘Nam less than a week after the funeral. Eaten up by his own guilt, Buck followed his friend, silently vowing to keep him safe, no matter the personal cost.

They both requested assignment to SOG and were back in-country before they had even unpacked their belongings. Through thick and thin the two stuck together, with Buck becoming the rock that kept Chris sane and alive. When Chris was assigned his own team, his choice of second-in-command came as no surprise to anyone. And when the rest of that team had been decimated, it was Buck who had physically dragged Chris back to the LZ, despite his own injuries. Chris allowed himself a small smile. No matter what the rest of the team turned out to be like, he knew his back would be covered.

The recognizable hum of the helicopter’s blades came within earshot and Chris turned his head and his thoughts to it. Raising his hand to block out the blinding sun, he watched as the Slick flew closer, its size as impressive as ever. The noise increased and Chris could feel the air circle around him as it landed, dust from the ground blowing into his face and hair. He turned his face away until the dust settled. Without a word, he ushered his team into the huey, making sure, as always, that he was the last one on board. Buck had once, many missions ago, tried to encourage Chris to board before him. Despite the blood spilling down his face and the arm that was clearly broken, he still refused. Being the last one in meant two things to him: one, he would be the first out if they had to make a hot landing, and two, if anyone on the ground fired at them, he would be able to protect his team. He wouldn’t allow anything to happen to his team. Never again.

Ensuring that everyone was settled, Chris sat behind the co-pilot, his knees pulled up to his chest, arms curled loosely around his semi-automatic. He nodded to the pilot and felt the huey lift up, the base becoming smaller and smaller as they distanced themselves from it.

A new team, completely untried, and already some of them were on rocky ground with each other. Only time would tell if they could work successfully as a team. Travis seemed to think so, believed they could make a difference, that they would become a tight unit. Chris was less convinced.

As the LZ came into view and the pitch of the huey engines changed to signify descent, that belief was pushed back. They had a job to do.

The chopper dropped them off at an LZ far enough away from the village to make sure they didn’t attract too much attention. It had seemed like a good plan, but by the time they got to the village, they were all exhausted. Chris ordered a full search of the village despite their exhaustion, an order which didn’t sit too well with Standish, who looked like he was calculating the feasibility of going AWOL.

Once every hooch had been searched for signs of Viet Cong occupation, Chris finally allowed the team to take five. The villagers were used to the occasional visits by American troops and paid little or no attention to their actions. Only when Buck stormed into one hooch a little heavy-handedly did anyone say anything. The young woman, carrying her baby in a sling on her back, had screamed and began shouting at him. In typical Buck-style, he apologized in his best attempt at Vietnamese and flashed the woman one of his million-dollar smiles.

The team spread out, splitting into pairs, with the exception of Buck who seated himself near the young woman he had so recently befriended. JD, still wary of the situation, stuck close to Chris, apparently convincing himself it was his job as RTO to stay at his side. Chris, aware of the youngster’s nervousness, chatted to him, trying to ease his worries.

"These locals aren’t all Vietnamese," he explained, while crunching on one of the crackers he pulled out of his c-rat tin. "There are villages like this all over the country, made up of people from all different backgrounds. We call them ‘Yards, although the full name is Montagnard. They’re pretty independent, not reliant on either North or South Vietnam, although, on the whole, they have less tolerance for the North Vietnamese."

JD looked around at the villagers. Several of them have very different facial features than those he had come to recognize as Vietnamese. Their looks were more Hawaiian, he thought, although he didn’t know exactly why he thought that.

"Don’t they mind us being here?" he asked.

"They’re used to it," Chris reassured him. "Like the South Vietnamese, they are harassed by the Viet Cong often enough that they tentatively accept the presence of Americans. They believe we can look after them."

"Either that," interrupted Buck, who had just joined them, "or they are as scared of us as they are of Charlie. Right, LT?"

Chris sighed and nodded. "Sergeant Wilmington is right," he agreed. "The powers that be try to tell us that the ‘Yards don’t mind us, but I think the truth is that they’re afraid to say anything in case we kill them."

JD’s eyes widened in horror. "But we’re Americans. There’s no way any of us would do that."

Buck snorted. "Sure, kid. If that’s what you want to believe…"

"There are some so-called Americans who think it’s their God-given right to rape and murder," Chris said, sadly. "I can guarantee you one thing though - not one of them will ever be part of my unit."

With that final comment, Chris pulled out his map of the area and began studying it - a clear sign that the conversation was over for now.

*

Ezra, looking for some peace and quiet, had settled himself down near the small fenced-in section where the goats and pigs were kept. The smell was almost unbearable, but it assured him of some solitude. At least he thought it would.

"Where’s the spare ammo?" There was something about Sanchez that bothered Standish. He wasn’t sure if it was the religious aspect or if it was the way the older man obsessed over his weapons. When Ezra had found out that he was going to be the assistant machine-gunner he was horrified. Not only did it mean carrying belts of extra ammunition, but he would also have to ‘buddy-up’ with Sanchez.

"I left it over with the additional rations and equipment," he indicated towards the pile of US Army equipment that was resting against the wall of one of the hooches.

"Well, get your ass over there and pick it up," Sanchez replied, his voice even and steady. "If we get caught out and the ammo’s nowhere near me, what use is it?"

Despite wanting to argue that as no-one, including themselves, knew where they were headed, the chances of being suddenly ambushed were pretty slim, Ezra dropped his fork into the c-rat tin and placed it slowly and deliberately on the ground. He stood up and slowly strolled over to the hooch, picking up the belts and slinging them across his shoulders.

Without a word, he headed back to where he had been sitting and picked up his tin, intending to take it elsewhere for his long-desired quiet time.

However, as he bent down, a scream of "INCOMING!" came from somewhere to his left. Before he had a chance to look around for the source of the shout, an explosion from a VC hand grenade knocked him to the ground. A barrage of small arms fire quickly followed the explosion.

Within seconds, Sanchez had dropped to his knees, panning left and right with his M60. To his right, Buck was already up on his feet with his M16 clicked to full-automatic, firing towards the treeline, an action quickly imitated by Tanner, Larabee, and Jackson. JD was slower to respond, his inexperience showing as he fumbled for the weapon that lay across his back.

"Standish. You okay?"

Sanchez wasn’t looking at him, instead keeping his eyes fixed to the treeline, searching for any movement. Intermittently, he would fire a burst of automatic fire, although whether at something he’d seen or just out of anger, Standish wasn’t sure.

He picked himself up as best as he could considering he needed to keep his head down to avoid losing it. "Nothing a long shower won’t combat, Private Sanchez," he replied, brushing a hand over his fatigues to try and wipe away some of the dirt.

"Good," replied Sanchez. "Then you can stop pissing about and start feeding the ammo."

Tugging one of the heavy belts from around his shoulders, Standish did just that, while trying not to think about what exactly he was kneeling in.

*

"Dunne. Radio." Chris threw himself behind one of the hooches in an automatic gesture as soon as the grenade exploded. Not quite so gracefully, JD followed, understanding that this was one of those times that the radio needed to be near the lieutenant.

While JD fumbled with the controls, trying to contact the Firebase, Larabee fired into the treeline, fully aware that at their current distance they weren’t going to make much difference.

Finally, the radio connected and JD handed the receiver over to Chris.

"Papa Bear, this is Baby Bear 7. We’re taking small arms fire from the November-Echo of the ville."

"Baby Bear 7, we read you. Can you handle, or do you need backup?"

"Think we’ve got it covered. But a pair of eyes in the sky might help."

"Understood, Baby Bear. Goldilocks is in your area. With you in 5 Mikes."

"Thanks Papa Bear. Baby Bear 7 Out."

He handed the radio back to JD and turned to Buck who was sitting with his Thumper on his shoulder happily firing off grenades into the treeline.

"Sergeant. Leave that here and go find out what the situation is."

Buck threw a sloppy salute and handed the Thumper over to JD.

"Take good care of it now, boy," he said with a smile as he pulled his M16 from over his shoulder.

"Careful." Chris’s one word held a lot more concern than should be expected, but he and Buck had been friends for more years than either wished to think about. He knew the other man was the best at what he did, but that had never once stopped him worrying whenever they split up. They worked best as a team and they both knew that.

"Cover him," Chris ordered JD. The young RTO aimed the Thumper carefully towards the treeline and fired, praying that it would have enough reach. The explosion of the grenade was accompanied by a scream, reassuring him it was a good shot.

Meanwhile, Buck dashed over to the heavy tree cover to his right, deep enough to creep around behind the flank of whoever the hell was out there shooting at them. He got close to the firing and noticed a lone figure standing with an AK47. Dressed all in black, it was clear that these were VC and not NVA Regulars. Quickly scanning the area, Buck assured himself that he had the opportunity and pulled out his knife. Quieter than any gun, the knife had always been his weapon of choice.

Without hesitation, he slipped in behind the man and dragged the sharp blade of the knife across his throat, dropping him to the floor. Heading deeper into the enemy territory, he could only watch as grenades were thrown at his team. To attack them now would be suicide, and he had specifically promised Chris a few months earlier that he wouldn’t do that. Instead, he was there to get a full SitRep and report back.

"It’s not too bad," he said when he made it back to the village. JD was still firing the grenades into the treeline and Buck was relieved to see that the kid had managed to avoid being shot so far. "No more than a dozen in total. Nothing extraordinary, just your standard everyday run-of-the-mill VC."

Chris glared at him for a moment, wishing that for once Buck would succeed in reporting a situation without elaborating it needlessly.

As the huey slick arrived, Larabee decided it was time to get ready to clean up. Despite being kitted out more for troop-carrying than for heavy fire, the slick boasted a pair of M60 machine guns suspended one on each side. A well-trained pair of gunners could do as much damage as anyone on the floor.

"Goldilocks to Baby Bear. I sure hope none of your guys are in the treeline ‘cos we’re going in shooting."

"Feel free, Goldilocks. Just try and leave a couple for us."

"Only if you’re good." The teasing, laughing voice belied the seriousness of the situation. "And the beers will be on you when we get back."

"Understood," replied Chris, allowing a small smile to cross his face. He had no idea who it was flying that slick, but if he was as good at flying as he was cocky, they should have no problems.

Sure enough, less than three minutes later, the slick had sprayed the entire treeline with machine gun fire, probably emptying several belts of ammo in the process.

"All yours, Baby Bear. I’m off for a nice warm shower."

Throwing a salute towards the slick as it flew away, Chris turned back to Buck.

"Take Standish and Sanchez. See what’s left."

The Sergeant nodded and dashed over to where the machine gunner and his companion were crouched.

As he watched them head out, Chris took a moment to check on the others. Jackson was busy patching up one of the villagers who had been injured by the first grenade. The injury wasn’t too bad, just a few pieces of shrapnel in his arm, but the man was whining and complaining like a child, resulting in the medic becoming more and more heavy-handed and irate.

JD was still following Chris’ every move, a habit which would usually serve to irritate the hell out of the Lieutenant, but in this case he was grateful. There had been too many occasions in which he’d needed to contact the base and had been left without a radio. It also meant that he could, hopefully, prevent the kid from heading home in a body bag.

One or two gunshots later and the three remaining members of the platoon returned to the village.

"Nobody said anything about VC in the area," Buck said as he sat himself down and pulled out his cigarette pack.

"There’s always VC about," Vin said quietly.

"Think they were expecting us?" Josiah asked.

"We weren’t expecting us until last night," Ezra muttered, brushing some of the now-dried mud free of his fatigues.

"He’s right," Chris said. "Our drop-off time wasn’t confirmed until last night. Hell, we could have been here at any time, there was no way they could have predicted this was our destination even if they spotted the drop-off. They were hot on our heels to have attacked that close to us getting here."

"Probably means that the intelligence is right about the NVA encroaching on the area," Nathan pointed out.

Chris tapped a finger on the butt of his M16 as he eyed the village and the surrounding area, finally glancing up at the darkening sky. It was a wide area to cover for just seven men, and there was no way that he could keep them all on 24-hour watch. "Sergeant, see about setting some defenses up, assign a watch schedule. We may have to recruit some of the villagers to help, after all it is their goddamned home that was being blow up."

*

JD hovered near his lieutenant, adrenaline still sending minute tremors through his slight frame as he tried to re-orientate himself after the gunfight. He wasn’t certain whether he should stay close to his CO or see to the aftermath of the battle and the preparations for the night ahead. This had been the young private’s first taste of battle, no longer a cherry since he could claim his first fight and first kill, but he was still the rookie.

He glanced around the village, eyes following the ‘Yards as they checked the damage. Nathan was still trying to deal with the one injury they’d managed to catch. From there, JD watched Josiah settling his M60 back into safety mode, then to Ezra and more hastily to Vin as he realized they were both checking their magazines and ammo. He jumped and mentally kicked himself as he realized he couldn’t say whether his own weapon was loaded. Fumbling the M16 from his shoulder, his shaking fingers exchanged a half-spent magazine for a full one.

His concentration on his task, and distraction caused by the memories of the fight made him miss the first words that were spoken to him. It was only as a hand clamped lightly on his shoulder that his attention was re-directed.

"You okay, kid?" the sergeant asked.

"Oh, um yeah. Yeah, I’m fine… sir."

JD glanced around quickly, cursing his inattention as he realized the lieutenant had walked off and was now talking to Josiah and Ezra.

"It’s never easy the first time out," Buck stated. JD switched his attention back to the NCO, looking for any sign that the man was coddling him. He saw none, just understanding.

"Reckon you’re feeling a bit lost right now. I’d like to say it gets easier, it don’t stay on your conscience, but you do have more experience to call on which gives you a routine to concentrate on instead."

JD nodded mutely. Buck clapped the young RTO on the shoulder. "We’re gonna have to bed down fast here as we’re losing light rapidly. We’re sorting a watch cycle out; you’ll follow Standish at 0100. In the meantime, follow the LT, he’ll need that radio close and he’ll point out what he needs you to do."

"Yessir." JD responded smartly, pleased to have something to occupy him. He hunched the radio more securely on his shoulders and strode off eagerly toward the officer.

Buck watched him go with a wry smile, chuckling as he spotted the young soldier jogging to keep up with Chris’s clipped, purposeful stride, stumbling slightly as the blond changed direction abruptly. He shook his head and set about settling his troops down for the night.

*

 **June 25 1968: 0030 hours**

The instincts born to a career soldier caused Chris to wake where otherwise there would seem to be no reason for the disturbance. He lay still, alert to his surroundings, trying to pinpoint what it was that he had detected. Or not detected… he realized.

The village was quiet. He could sense no movement at all, not of the villages nor of the watch that his team was supposed to be running. Knowing that even the quietest of foot soldiers made some noise as clips jangled and boots crushed leaves and twigs, the silence did not bode well.

Slowly raising himself, he carefully clicked the safety from the M16 as his eyes scanned the darkened village and surrounding areas. There was no sign of Standish anywhere in the immediate area. Chris strode over to Buck, waking the Sergeant with a hand to his shoulder. Waking instantly, Buck frowned as he realized it was the lieutenant that had disturbed him, and that he was alert and seemingly expecting trouble.

"Where did you tell Standish to stand watch?" he whispered.

"Told him to keep an eye on the treeline but to make sure he did a full perimeter search every 30 minutes. Why?"

"Can’t spot him anywhere, was just going to check the trees," Chris informed him as he straightened out from his crouch.

"Want company?"

"No. Stay alert, but I want you here in the village."

Buck nodded once, and grabbing his rifle he moved to the shadow of one of the hooches as he watched the blond stealthily head for the forest.

Chris approached the outskirts of the treeline, crossing the boundary and stopping about 5 meters in before altering his angle to run parallel to the forest edge. Initially wary and hearing nothing to indicate presence, it did not take long before he heard the faint sounds of movement. Crouching down he pinpointed the intruder several meters in front of him, but due to the gloom could not make an identification.

Moving forward carefully, he made aim to intercept, stopping only when the noise suddenly ceased. Sharp eyes scanned the area but failed to reveal the interloper. Taking two steps forward, he suddenly heard rustling much closer and to his left, spinning quickly and bringing his gun to bear he found himself face to face with another M16, and the smirking face of his new private.

"Goddamn it, where the hell have you been?" Chris growled, before pulling himself to his full height and advancing on the southerner. "Why aren’t you at your post, anything could have happened and you leave the village unguarded. If you’re attempting to go AWOL you picked a bad time to do it, and the wrong unit to do it from."

About to mutter a reply about picking a better place to skulk away, Ezra found the words suddenly less important than trying to stay on both feet as his irate lieutenant suddenly grabbed on to his webbing and started to drag him back to the village.

"I’ll have you court-martialed and in Leveanworth before you can even think about a word in your defense."

The spluttering southerner could do nothing but try to move his feet quick enough to keep up with the lieutenant in order to prevent a head-first plummet into the dirt. Any protestations that could be understood were ignored. Chris saw the other man’s face flush as he realized the loudness of Chris’s voice was waking the villagers as well as the rest of Charlie Company.

As he stumbled again, and Chris angrily dragged him on maintaining his literary of threats, Ezra had finally had enough and forcibly removed Chris’s hands from his fatigues.

"Cho de - câm mồm!"

In some ways it was the shouted angry tone of the seemingly unflappable southerner that brought the lieutenant’s tirade, and his movements, to a halt. The silence was broken only by the sniggers of one of the children as he was dragged away by a less-than-pleased parent.

"What did you say?" Chris’ hushed voice asked.

"I said shut up," Ezra said tersely, angrily swiping at his fatigues to straighten them out again. "You seem to have this problem with actually listening."

"That was Vietnamese," Chris pointed out needlessly.

"Well it wasn’t German," Ezra bit back sarcastically, bringing his gaze back.

"You speak Vietnamese?" Chris asked through grinding teeth, choosing to refrain from commenting on the sarcasm.

"Fluently."

Chris took a step toward the disgruntled Private. "And you didn’t think this was an important bit of information to pass on?"

"I like to be prepared," Ezra admitted quietly, but he stood his ground in front of the taller officer. "Once I received my draft papers I intended to learn as much as I could before venturing into this godforsaken country," he added bitterly.

"Including an entire language?" Buck asked, his disbelief evident. Having sent the rest of the squad out to check the perimeter as soon as Standish confronted the lieutenant, he’d hung back to make sure he wouldn’t have to stop the volatile officer striking out. That left the three men alone to have a private conversation.

"It does not serve to be ill-prepared."

"I still want to know why you didn’t tell anyone," Chris ground out, frustrated by the southerner and his own lack of knowledge.

Ezra sighed before continuing quietly. "If anyone found out that I was fluent in the language, I would have had the CIA or covert ops at my hooch door recruiting me with little option to say ‘no thank you’."

Chris paused as he looked properly at the southerner. The poker face was still in place, but there was a touch of apprehension in turbulent green eyes. Chris suddenly realized that at this moment in time, Ezra was worried that his lieutenant would use the new-found knowledge to rid himself of his problematic recruit and that he would end up in the clutches of the CIA.

Chris sucked in a deep breath. "We keep this between us three for now," he said, looking both Ezra and Buck in the eye to emphasize his instruction, silently noting the slight relieved dip of Ezra’s shoulders. "I’d rather use the knowledge for our own team if it’ll keep us out of trouble. Now, what were you saying before?"

Standish nodded once in thanks. "When I was patrolling the perimeter I spotted one of the villagers slipping out of one of the huts and into the jungle, and based on his suspicious activity, I opted to follow. After about a quarter of a mile he stopped where there is a radio hidden, and I overheard him sending a message to the VC to advise them to set up a dawn attack, telling them there were only seven men and it would be easy to take the village. I followed him to make sure he returned, at which point I was accused of going AWOL," he added testily.

"Shit," Chris muttered. "Look, I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. But are you sure about a dawn raid?"

Ezra shrugged. "I didn’t get close enough to hear all the instructions from the transmission, but I am positive we will be attacked at first light, as to how many troops will be upon us, I could not say."

Chris turned to Buck, both men understanding that they would have to put up their own stand, that there would not be any air support until the light improved, by which time it could all be over. "We’ll need a line of claymores," Buck said.

"Tanner’s going to be most effective in a sniper’s position, somewhere high," Chris added.

Buck nodded in agreement. "We can bed Sanchez in somewhere where he can do the most damage, get a crossfire set up and leave Nathan to pick up the pieces."

Chris glanced at his watch, recognizing that they barely had five hours before the sun would be rising. "Do it," he instructed before turning to the silently watching southerner. "Do you think you can find that radio again?"

"Without a doubt," Ezra said confidently, as he watched the sergeant pull the squad together to break the bad news and hand out instructions.

"Good, go get JD and you two bring it back here, we may find it useful to throw confusion at the VC." Standish nodded his ascent. "And point out that VC agent before you go, you and I might need to have a little talk with him."

Ezra smiled wryly as he set off to collect the man that had sold them out.

*

Chris knew the first step toward an effective ambush was to maintain the element of surprise. The VC had lost theirs, thanks to Ezra’s linguistic skills, and it was now up to Chris to spring the rest of the ambush. They needed to be subtle about this - there was no point in setting up huge look-out posts and increasing their patrols as all this would do would be to alert the enemy. The result would be that the VC would forgo the attack for the time being, leaving the platoon on constant alert, never knowing when the attack would come.

The other problem Chris faced was a lack of personnel. From the radio transmission, Standish had guessed that a large contingent was on its way. In contrast, Chris had a team of seven men and a handful of civilians who had no business getting involved in a firefight.

"Buck!" Chris called out to his sergeant, who was taking an inventory of their assets. "What we got?"

"Not enough," he replied, shaking his head. Neither man was too surprised, as the Army wasn’t known for its over-generosity when it came to supplies. "Plenty of spare magazines and a couple of frags each. A dozen or so claymores, a few smoke canisters and three spare belts of M60 shells."

The results were not promising. While it was reassuring to know that they wouldn’t be running out of M16 ammo for a while, Chris was concerned about the lack of claymores. He had been hoping to set up a perimeter using the mines - a plan which would have meant that only a few of the VC would even get close enough to the village to be a problem. The plans would have to change. And quickly.

Chris looked around the village, watching each member of his team prepare. He knew that the only way any of them would survive would be for them to work together and he wondered if they were ready to trust each other like that yet. Each person stood alone, going through the motions that they had been trained for. Jackson had pulled everything out of his medkit and was taking inventory. Like any medic, he understood that his usefulness depended on him knowing where everything was and being able to get to what he needed, when he needed it. Very few medics could easily use another medic’s kit - each one had their own way of packing and sorting their equipment. While Chris would have liked to get Jackson out front during the upcoming fight, he knew that keeping the medic alive was the best way of keeping the rest of them alive. He would have to keep him back, well behind the others, and hope that his impressive accuracy levels would pay off.

Tanner was scrambling up and down trees like a squirrel searching for nuts. Buck had tasked the sniper with finding the best spot, leaving the decision of what made a good spot up to him. To Chris, one tree was much like another, but it was clear that Tanner knew what he was looking for as he dismissed first one group of trees and then another. As he watched, Chris was astonished to see Vin actually leap across from one tree limb to another, showing no fear at all. Occasionally, he would pull out his rifle and aim through the branches, checking to see if there was enough scope for him there.

JD was sitting quietly, subdued. He had the radio on his lap and was talking into it, explaining to the operator at the other end what their current situation was. The conversation wouldn’t keep him occupied for long and he didn’t want the kid sitting around getting nervous.

With the wave of his hand, Chris indicated for Buck to join him.

"I need the few claymores we have in a line around the north of the village," he explained. "Take JD and teach him how to secure them."

Without a word, Buck nodded and slipped his rifle over his shoulder. The claymores were a last line of defense in this situation; if they had to detonate them, it would mean they were close to being overrun. By that time, Chris would have called in for an air strike. Silently, he prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

Looking out for the rest of the team, Chris watched as Standish helped one of the villagers herd a goat into a hooch. The southerner managed to surprise him time and again. He’d initially pictured Standish as the kind of guy who would complain about everything and do nothing. Instead, he’d turned out to have a good heart, a quick mind and a singular ability to drive other people insane. He knew that Standish put up a facade of doing everything for profit, but Chris now suspected that there was a lot more to him than met the eye. It would certainly be interesting having him in the platoon.

Sanchez was sitting quietly, his back to the wall of one of the hooches. He was singing to himself, a hymn, Chris suspected, as he stripped down the machine gun. Every component was cleaned with as much care and affection as a parent with a newborn baby. On the floor around him lay his M16, his handgun, and a half dozen grenades. His K-bar was hooked tightly into his webbing. For someone who was surrounded by enough weaponry to take out a platoon, Chris realized the ex-preacher looked extremely calm and at ease.

*

Dawn arrived faster than anyone had hoped. None of the platoon had managed any more sleep since their initial awakening, and tempers were beginning to flare. There was another ‘encounter’ between Ezra and Nathan that resulted in the medic refusing to tend to the split lip that his fist had caused the southerner. This led to Josiah stepping in and trying to calm the pair down - an act which in turn led to ten minutes of screaming, shouting, and cursing in at least four different languages, until Chris threatened to shoot all three of them.

Vin, uncomfortable with the confrontation, had ferreted himself away in a tree and stayed there. JD still followed Chris around, but was so nervous that every time someone spoke too loud, he jumped a mile and aimed his gun at them. It was getting so bad that Buck began wondering if he should remove the magazine from his M16, just in case.

By dawn, the Seven had regained some semblance of order and were in position. As planned, Vin was playing both sniper and lookout, as his vantage point gave him a clear view of most of the surrounding area. Josiah and Ezra were hunched down near the animal pen they had found during the initial ambush, and Nathan was close behind them, hoping to pick off as many VC as he could in between patching the others up. Chris was opposite Vin, holed up behind one of the hooches, with JD close by his side. Buck was on the other side of the line of claymores, deep within the trees. Only Vin would be able to tell which was their teammate when the bullets began flying and Chris prayed that Buck would keep his head down. He understood why the sergeant insisted on being out there and, strategically at least, he agreed with it. But from a personal point of view, he hated the idea. Creeping around in near silence, Buck would get to as many VC as possible when they came in. He also carried three smoke canisters - the easiest way to signal if things got out of hand. JD was under strict orders - if he saw the smoke, he called in for an air strike.

HQ was aware of the situation and had the gunships nearby but, at Chris’s request, they wouldn’t send them in unless requested, hopefully keeping the element of surprise.

The only thing left to do was to wait.

*

In all, JD reflected later, the fight was over a lot quicker than he had anticipated. Around 5:30, a signal from Vin indicated the VC had arrived. They remained quiet for a while, obviously settling themselves in and getting prepared, assuming that the Americans knew nothing of their arrival. Soon enough, though, the first attempts were made to sneak into the village. Each one was easily picked off by either Vin or Buck, with very little sound to indicate that the ambush had been sprung.

Eventually, either bored of waiting or just eager to die, the VC stormed forward, guns blazing and grenades succeeding in missing every member of the platoon. Immediate response came from Josiah and Ezra in the form of the M60, closely followed by the rest of the team.

From every direction, gunfire echoed, the sounds of each weapon easily identifiable to Chris. He watched in horror as the VC closed in on them, finally triggering the line of claymores. With a nod at the young RTO beside him, Chris knew it was time to call in the air strike.

An air strike would mean one thing - the use of napalm. One of the most horrific weapons ever designed, Chris abhorred the use of it, but he was a realist. There were occasions when there were no other options. A conventional air strike would stand no chance in the dense jungle-like conditions, as the treetops would intercept any bullets or grenades. Napalm, by its nature, would shower the trees with a burning gasoline-based liquid. The liquid would burn at approximately 800 degrees centigrade, causing every tree to alight. Chris knew that a single drop of napalm on human flesh would cause it to burn as though attacked by acid. He knew that more people died from infections caused by the burns than from the napalm itself. He knew that making the call would be as much as single-handedly murdering every person within the area. He also knew that if he didn’t make the call then none of them would survive the day.

It was the type of decision he had to make as the platoon leader. It was one he had made on several occasions in the past and on every single one of those occasions, he had prayed never to have to do so again.

Simultaneously, he heard the gunships overhead, and saw Buck running back to the village, occasionally turning to fire a shot or two at some unseen enemy. Chris offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening that Buck had the sense to get the hell out of there.

With a yell, he ordered the rest of his team to take cover. Although the gunship pilots had pretty good aim, with something as volatile as napalm, it was best not to take any risks. Within moments, the fight was over. The distinctive stink of the napalm combined with the smell of burning flesh, making Chris’s eyes water. He heard the screams coming from the treeline and watched as one figure tried to run from the trees, his entire body burning.

The napalm burned exceedingly hot, but it also burned quickly, leaving just the smell.

"It’s over, LT." Buck’s voice was filled with both relief and fear. He too had seen the effects of the napalm on more than one occasion and Chris knew, that like him, he hated having to rely on it.

"I know," Chris replied, his eyes still focused on the burning man, now collapsed on the floor.

"There is one good thing come out of this though," the sergeant continued. Chris looked at him. "At least we’ve got the support now. There were a few times back in SOG we coulda done with it."

Chris nodded, realizing for the first time that this was what he had requested when he joined Charlie Company. He sighed and picked himself up off the ground eyes darting around to make sure his team was fully accounted for.

Once satisfied that none of the squad was harmed, he signaled to JD to hand him the radio, calling in their sitrep to the firebase. Chris shrugged off the verbal pat on the back from base, his eyes darting to the still smoking treeline. All that was left was to secure the area and begin clearing up. Hueys would be flying in later in the day to re-supply their ammo, but no reprieve from their intended mission was forthcoming, despite their presence now being known to the enemy.

Having sent Buck off to settle the troops and give them their tasks, he watched as again Standish helped the villagers. Hoping that the private wasn’t making his proficiency with the language obvious, Chris walked over to join him. As he approached, Ezra turned away from the elderly mamasan he was aiding, converting his language to English before he recognized who was approaching.

"I thought we were keeping the Vietnamese between us?" he asked.

Standish shrugged. "Doesn’t matter as she can’t hear a thing anyway."

Chris snorted. "By the way, Standish. Just what the hell did you yell at me last night?"

The southerner smirked. "As I said previously, I told you to shut up."

"Seemed a lot more words than that."

"Vietnamese can be very wordy," Ezra drawled.

"Just like you then," Chris said with a chuckle.

The young private spluttered his indignation, but Chris just laughed and waved him quiet.

"So, you said you like to be prepared," Chris asked, the mild tone making Ezra nod warily. "What else did you make sure you knew before coming out here?"

This time it was the southerner’s turn to grin. "Well, I wouldn’t want to reveal all my secrets on the first time out. But let’s just say that the literature the Army likes to produce does have some very interesting facts in it, especially on how to silence your enemy."

"I’ll bear that in mind."

The two men shared grins, but the conversation died as the rest of the squad joined them. Less than two days in and they had already been attacked twice and hadn’t even started on the primary objective of their mission. Chris glanced around the six men, and this time had a much less cloudy picture of the men in his squad. They were shaping up to be a very good team, and what scared him was he was starting to care.

"Well, gentlemen," Chris began. "Today we clean up, tomorrow we see about getting started on this mission."


End file.
